


Mad Man

by fleurmore



Category: The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Damon Salvatore - Freeform, Delena, Elena Gilbert - Freeform, F/M, One Shot, Post Season 8, Stefan Salvatore - Freeform, Stelena, the vampire diaries - Freeform, tvd, tvd oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29895129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurmore/pseuds/fleurmore
Summary: Sometimes he wishes for this to stop—for her to stop shoving madness into him. Sometimes he wishes he could kill her himself. Grabbing the knife she left on the kitchen counter, stab her so he can escape the hell she gave him for loving her.





	Mad Man

He had lived his whole life before he met her. He smells like the last perfume she wears. He told the stars about her every single night, with a glass of bourbon sitting next to him on a nightstand. The image of her is still vivid. His Cherie, the reason he bleeds his fingers, his muse.

She was new to all of this—hunger and strong desires for everything—she never gets used to it. There was no flame between them, but he was willing to burn himself to death just to be around her. He let himself be on the edge of sorrow, become a savior to her undelightful life, just so he can taste a glimpse of being loved by one. being loved by her. No matter how many times he found himself bleed, he knows that hurting never felt as good as this.

Sometimes he wishes for this to stop—for her to stop shoving madness into him. Sometimes he wishes he could kill her himself. Grabbing the knife she left on the kitchen counter, stab her so he can escape the hell she gave him for loving her.

But the thing is, this is his Cherie. And he could never do anything to undo the damage she has done over him.

"How much longer do you need?" She sits near the fireplace, looking at the letters that were burning into ashes, eyes glued at the flames. he groaned into frustration, wiping his face in despair—afraid of what she would respond.

For the longest time, nothing comes from her little mouth. He always feels restless around her—like every little move she made would be too dangerous for his heart, like she has this tiny tool that put controls on him, one that she can switch on and off whenever she likes. And he hates it, he hates the power she has over him.

He's looking at the same flame, hot and smokes radiating, the warmness that would never be theirs. Her stares were empty like she only sees nothing.

"What can I do?" his question hangs in the air, tense and tight, sounds too loud for a whisper and too desperate.

"Just tell me what to do."

She only shows him the curve of her back. in this white nightgown, she looks like pure elegance and grace—beneath dozens of open wounds on the surface of her skin. He's only two or three steps behind, standing like a puppet, waiting for her approval. But she only gave him silence, the kind that suffocates him and makes him wonder about what else he did wrong.

He can hear the sound of her steady breath, and for that he was thankful. The slight movement of her shoulder as she inhales and exhales—trying to stay calm with whatever left inside her. And he understands, at least he was trying to. Usually he would sit there, on the same couch with her, and together they would look at the flame while enjoying each other company.

But now all he could think about is the day he saved her from herself.

The image of one gloomy morning at the cemetery where his brother buried came to his mind. Nothing but a dark horizon and gray clouds remain, as he watches the only family he had were put into this brown casket—along with everything that was precious to him. He wished for it to rain that day, as his brother would love the sentiment of water pouring down on his last day on earth. But the rain never showed up, even until midnight after the funeral.

His brother left him with only one wish—for him to start admitting to the love he has for his brother's girl. The night before everything went down, he asked him to stay for a drink even though his brother hates the smell of alcohol as it reminds him of their forever-drunk father. But he still insisted for them to have their bonding time, and as if he knew it would be the last time, he didn't have the heart to say no.

So then they talked for a long time. About anything and everything. About dreams and funny childhood memories, about the joke that after all of this happened, he promised to bug him for eternity. And after one long night, his brother looks at him—with proudness that ache, compassion that he's sure would be the very thing he would miss—and he said,

"Tell her you love her after I left."

And as easy as his brother made it out to be, as self-less as it is, he knew that for him the only thing that matters is to keep her sane after he's gone. Because his brother had nothing to left. and to be able to do that, he needed him. he needed the reassurance that even in his casket, he could still showering her with love through him.

"If you're not going to do that for me. Do that for her. Save her from herself."

So then he did. He did save her from the only danger that threatens her. The insanity of grief. And as if she's the only one who's going to suffer after his brother left, he accepted the wish.

"I'm sorry,"

The small voice put him back to reality. He could feel something inside of him rising—an emotion that is too deep and too dangerous—the kind that pushes him to take three steps towards her, the kind that makes him want to hold her. But he resists the urge, he didn't let those emotions win over the wall he builds to protect himself from her.

"I'm sorry that it's been forever and I'm still like this,"

Oh, those words again. He knew the minute she shows any sign of guilt, he could erase whatever despair she made him feel. That is the kind of power she possesses, beneath the illusion of beauty and grace and fragility, lays something ruling that made him helpless. And he couldn't do anything to help himself.

"You know I'm here for you, right?"

That moment, she turned her head for the first time. Her hair tousled, pale lips and tired eyes. But a tiny smile formed on her lips and without her answer, he knows that it's the only thing he can do for her.

She lost her epic-love, and he lost the only one who could define compassion and humanity without making him grimace. But his love towards her—no matter how much it is—would never be enough to replace the love his brother had for her. Because he could never offer the same compassion, the same amount of respect. The way he loves is too different from his brother. He loves too much, too selfish, and too needy. He wants her whole—nothing left for anything else. Not even herself

And with that, he's scared. Because the flame between them is not burning enough. And the only reason he's still holding onto her is because of his brother's wish.

There was no jealousy or anything. No anger towards his deceased brother that even at his death she's still choosing him. in his book, hating his brother for this situation doesn't sound as twisted as other unspoken things he had done. But it blows his mind that the only emotion he felt was possession, selfish possession over her. And the fact that he knows exactly where she stands at this, the fact that no matter how many times she assured him that the love she has for him and his brother are the same.

He always knew that it is a lie she would tell him for eternity.

"What can I do to make it right?" Finally, he asked.

Nothing. Nothing else matters to her anymore.

And sure, he knows the answer. She wants him to be mad, but to not blame himself for everything. She wants him to let go, but her existence is the constant reminder of how he is not the better man. So what could he do? Drowning in the same boat as her? Pushing her against the wall, so she could see how much this hurting him too?

Nothing. He could do nothing.

He wants to write her now. To grab his pen, and pour everything in him until his fingers bleed. But he can offer her millions of love letters, yet she would still choose one that has his brother's name engraved on it. So what? Nothing else would replace the purest form of love that his brother had for her.

The silence between them could slice the air—and it suffocates him. He thought about giving up, but this is the last chance he pays his brother back. Last chance of redemption, and to meet his own selfish desire.

"Fine, take as much time as you wanted."

His brother would hate his impatience. But screw him, it's been a hell of madness inside him. So he left with nothing but a pang in his heart—undeserving and not enough. His brother always gives her the freedom to make her own choice, and at last, he gave that to her too.

He could taste blood on his lips—his blood, thick and bright red. He took a bottle of bourbon with him, and stand in front of his brother's casket. He drinks straight from the bottle—savoring the familiar taste, wishing his brother's spirit was there to keep him company.

And as he watches the sky where there is an almost full moon, he starts to think about all the things that happened after his brother's death. The image of her in a white nightgown, silhouette of sadness and grief. She compelled herself with joy, trying to look okay when both of them knew they weren't, and they would never.

"I'm sorry, brother." He whispers, "I'm sorry I couldn't grant your last wish."

He is not this person, he's not the type who mourns and feels and does anything that in line with humanity. But with his brother—the only one who knew him since he was human—he could feel something inside him explode in a tiny form of guilt.

He didn't want to admit that he misses him more. More than the love he has for the girl. Because as much as the desire he has for wanting to have her fully for himself, it wasn't near as far as his brother's compassion towards him.

"So what if she doesn't love me as much as she loved you? It doesn't make me any less than you right, isn't it, brother?"

He chugs the bourbon, and exhaled harshly, looking at the moon he starts to plan his redemption.

"but isn't it wonderful that her existence made us closer?" He asked as if his brother was there.

" if only you were not selfish enough to die before me," he adds.

He still has hopes to get what he wants. He still wants to make things right—to redeem his past mistake, come back to her, and love her because time is limitless to them. But he thought, for centuries he never let himself change over a person, so why he's doing everything to gain something he doesn't belong to?

He wants to be the mad man, mountains of sorrow, the result of abandonment. But he had no strength to tell the universe that madness is what keeps him alive. He wants to burn in hell, buried with his mistakes along with pages of his brother's journal with him—blood and ink leaked, damp, and yellowing.

He wants to be the mad man, shouting to the world of the deaf. Holding on to the only thing that matters—the love that he has for his brother's girl. Somehow it linked her to him, made him fragile and weak. But when she didn't return it he turned blind.

He wants to feel the ache of the sorrow, so he can meet death himself and become the mad man she always wishes him to be.

And so he asks for one last favor,

"I'm going, brother. Just please try to not contact the witch to bring me back. Let me do this so we could bicker again for eternity."

In the end, he chooses to fulfill the last promise he made to his brother.


End file.
